


Sick Of This And Other Things

by Buckets_Of_Stars



Series: The Art Of Being Found [4]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, HAPPY 4TH OF JULY, Hurt Peter Parker, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kid Peter Parker, Mama Bear Tony Stark, Memories, Nightmares, Past Kidnapping, Past Torture, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Stark - Freeform, Peter gets his hug guys, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomit, Whump, aftermath of the nightmare, dad tony, dad tony stark, direct continuation of the last fic, enjoy, puking, son peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 02:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckets_Of_Stars/pseuds/Buckets_Of_Stars
Summary: When Peter is forced awake by some memories he would rather forget, he’s not prepared to lose his dinner as well as his much needed sleep.That is, unfortunately, what happened.





	Sick Of This And Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoy part 4!
> 
> This is a direct continuation of the last fic in this series, so it would probably be a good idea to read that first if you haven’t already!:D
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Spider-Man or any related materials.

* * *

 

Sitting up in bed, Peter barely has time to lean over the side before all his dinner gets forced up his throat.

  
His light flicks on, casting half the room in a light golden glow, hurried foot steps making their way over as he continues to dry heave, a whine getting stuck in his throat. Hands cup his face, pulling him into a warm lap and wiping away his tears.

  
His father’s voice, strained and breathless, wraps around him. “Peter? Shh, sweetheart, you’re okay, shh. I’m right here buddy, I’m right here.”

  
The teen tries to talk, to reassure Tony that he is fine and to not worry, but all that comes out is more puke, joining the pool and splatting against the side of the bed.

  
. . . _Force it all out_. . .

  
His face is red now, chest heaving, spit sliding down his chin and dotting the white sheet beneath.

  
His Dad wipes it away without hesitation, not even wincing as the warm and sticky liquid trails down his palm and into his shirt.

  
Finally, after a few more gruesome and terrifying minutes, the sickness seems to stop, Peter leans back against Tony with a whimper, barely having enough energy to wrap his arms around the man. His Dad just continues to rock them back and forth, his hands running through the boy’s hair and his continuous murmurs a deep rumble in his chest.

  
Peter listens to the steady and comforting thump of his heart through his shirt, the blue glow of the Arc Reactor bright against his wet eyes.

  
“C’mon kiddie,” Tony finally whispers, sitting up slightly. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

  
Feeling his exhaustion rear it’s ugly head, Peter weakly grabs at the billionaire when he stands, catching his shirt sleeve and holding on tight.

  
His voice, when he speaks, is weak, like a small boy’s. “W-wait, please d-don’t go!”

  
Tony shakes his head quickly, dark eyes widening, the whites glowing in the limited light.

  
“Don’t worry bud, I’m not leaving you.” A sigh. Peter feels a flash of guilt. “Do you think you can stand up, kiddo?”

  
The teen tries, he tries _so_ hard, but as soon as his feet touch the cold floor, as soon as he puts weight against the soles and tries to step, he staggers, legs trembling. With a muffled curse, his Dad steadies him, arms wrapping around his waist and lifting him up.

  
“Alright, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here!” Tony says, lifting Peter higher into his arms and making his way to the cracked open door of the bathroom. “I’m just gonna sit you down—okay there we go!”

  
Peter weakly glances up at the man, watching him as he grabs a washcloth and a bar of soap, turning on the tap.

  
The billionaire keeps up a steady stream of useless chatter as he gently washes his boy’s face off, wiping away the dried vomit and tear tracks with soft swipes of the clothe. Peter leans into each touch, his exhaustion and stress causing his body to ache.

  
Tony hums quietly as he finishes rising the rag off, turning back around to face his son, his eyes softening with love as the boy speaks.

 

“I-I’m sorry I woke you up, Dad.” The young Stark whispers after a while, guilt making his stomach churn.

  
Tony just shakes his head, walking over and cupping Peter’s face in his hands, pressing his fingers against his child’s temples and feeling the soothing rush of blood underneath.

  
“Don’t apologize, buddy. It wasn’t your fault.” Pausing to press a quick kiss against his son’s forehead, the genius gently lifts him up by his arms, pulling him against his side and walking back into the teen’s bedroom.

  
After grabbing new night clothes and turning around so Peter can change, Tony climbs into the bed, leaning back against the headboard and pulling the boy to his chest. The thick smell of vomit floats up from the floor and Tony quickly asks Friday to have it cleaned, wanted to dispel a potential meltdown before Peter could even notice.

  
It only takes about five seconds for the mess to get taken care of, the small whirl of the cleaning bots fading into nothing just as Peter finally relaxes fully against Tony, his head fitting into the space under the man’s chin like a missing puzzle piece.

  
They lay there for a while, just breathing and holding each other and _being_.

  
That’s when Peter finally notices that he is crying.

  
The tears trail hot down his face, soaking into Tony’s shirt and catching the man’s attention.

  
“Peter?” The billionaire asks, sitting up sharply and gripping his son’s arms. “What’s wrong kiddie? Do you feel sick again?”

  
But the boy just shakes his head, breath hitching as he buries his face deeper into his father’s chest, trying to almost become a physical part of the man as his body shivers. Tony wraps his arms around him once more, rubbing soothing circles on his back and whispering reassures into his hair, the ghost of his breath hot against the teen’s head.

  
“Why can’t people look at me?” Peter sobs, spilling out the first thing that came to mind.

  
Tony blinks, feeling his confusion and panic rise. “What do you mean, bud?”

  
_What does he mean?_ He didn’t even realize this, didn’t register it before, but now that he’s said it, that’s all that clouds his mind.

  
“I-I mean,” Peter swallows, throat clicking as he struggles to explain himself. “In-in the movies and books, people can always tell someone is sad by their eyes. They look at them and they can just _tell_. . . Why can’t people do that for me?”

  
Tony clutches his son closer in response, curling his body around the boy and running soothing hands through his hair.

  
“Are you sad, Petey-Pie?”

  
God, what is he _not_? Terrified. Horrified. Scarred. Broken. A shell of a boy. Something that was once a person but is now just a hollowed out cavern of broken fragments too small to get glued and forced back together.

  
A casket of all the dreams laid to dust the very second that white van snatched him up all those years ago.

  
Peter knows that his Dad can see the remains of who he once was. The smiling little boy with the eyes too big for his face and the brains too smart for the world.

  
“ . . _.All of those smarts you have up there. . .”_

  
A waste.

  
And Peter knows it _kills_ him, rips the billionaire in half and stomps him into the dirt when the young Stark nods his head, his thin body shuddering against Tony’s chest.

  
But he can’t do anything about it. And _that_ is what kills _Peter_.

  
“Yes. I’m-I’m _so_ sad, Daddy. They-they wouldn’t look at me. They would watch me, _study_ me, but-but not _see me_.”

  
Peter has to stop talking for a second, gasping and choking on the memories he can’t bare to remember, but can’t seem to forget.

  
. . . _Back and forth across the room, eyes blank, unseeing. . ._

  
“I need you to look at me, to see me. _Please_.”

  
So Tony does.

  
“I see you.” The superhero repeats over and over, voice cracking. “I _see_ you, baby.”

  
Even when Peter himself closes his eyes and rocks against him, his tears spilling over once more and his weight cramping the man’s lap, Tony rests their foreheads together and _looks_.

  
He sees the pain and the hurt. He sees the things his son wants to tell him but can’t and all the stuff in between.

  
But most of all, Tony sees Peter and he wouldn’t want to look at anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos make my day!;)
> 
> Also a very happy 4th of July to my fellow Americans out there! Stay safe tonight guys and don’t drink and drive!:)


End file.
